


Puppet

by AAluminium



Category: One Piece
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, F/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 02:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21384370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AAluminium/pseuds/AAluminium
Summary: Power asserts rules.*As a result of a very descpritive and incredible roleplay, I'm saying thank you to my brilliant and talented parner, @HeavenlyYaksa
Relationships: Donquixote Doflamingo/Monet
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Puppet

Doflamingo, habitually sprawled across his armchair, was enjoying quiet sounds of jazz that seemed to crawl under his skin. Tranquility of the dimly lit room was spreading across his tired muscles, the notes were flowing through his veins: only a few were allowed to enter the chamber, and currently the King of Dress Rosa was relishing his solitude – and power he wielded. He no longer needed to gain authority; now he possessed not only money and influence but also resources of the whole country; after obtaining the position of Shichibukai, he re-confirmed the right to ascend the throne and to rule single-handedly. 

But there was something that didn’t go according to his plan: Caesar postponed the development of the weapon due to some unpredictable circumstances, Kaido demanded certain guarantees, and a feeble attempts at rioting sparkled across all over Dress Rosa every once in a while. Of course he squashed such rebellions easily but they got on his nerves even more than anything else: he hated wasting time in vain, and none of his family members would eliminate the insurgents quietly – they were so much into cruel performances. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a subtle knock on the door. In a moment, a tall pale woman emerged in the room: her yellow avian eyes looked in front of her but never at the figure on the armchair. Yes, he awaited her: for some vague reason, news from Punk Hazard did not reach Dress Rosa, and Caesar, extremely lazy when it came to writing, ended up sending reports twice a week which clearly was not enough. The only person who could elucidate on the current situation was Monet – discreet, attentive and incredibly smart secretary copying and rectifying long lines of chemical gibberish by day as well as by night. 

“Young Master?” came her low indifferent voice which nonetheless contained a hint to her trademark sly smirk. “I received your order.” 

Sweeping his eyes over her, he idly shifted in his cushion automatically spotting a thick folder in her arms: Clown never took care of his documents. Gaze casted elsewhere and remained averse to her position. Not out of disrespect or neglect, but because he simply was that comfortable around her. Such was the aura of a debonair, perfectly calm, beguiling. 

“Monet…” his deep, pensive calling would hopefully bring her further into the room, seated in the intense shade of closed curtains and oak brown overtones, the King's actual seating was quite the distance from the door. Despite that, he would relay his words to the other with simplicity, being the only two beings within the chamber. "You’ve got something for me?"

“Quite a lot, in fact.” Throughout the years spent at his feet, intent and careful, Monet learnt all the intonations of his: she knew when he was relaxed; by a mere sound she could guess whether he was angry or just irritated; just a word escaping his lips could tell her more about his mood than his gestures — cunning, powerful man, Doflamingo was aware of the ways to deceive those around him by his visible tranquility and taciturnity. But not Monet. “I have reports on Caesar's work as well as Vergo's documents. And… on a side note… Law is in the lab, too. Probably this is something you would like to know, Young Master.”

This must’ve put him on guard: his relaxed hands slid across the armrests, the nails scratched the wood. She expected him to loathe the idea, but she had never seen him to lose him temper in a heartbeat – high time to deflect his attention by the latest scientific achievements made by Clown. 

Respectful, Monet hovered over to her Master, gently placing the papers on the tiny table to his left, and pulled out one document. “This is the main weapon Caesar is currently working on. You may be interested in the details, expense and the rest.” she extended her hand — and offered him her trademark sly grin exposing her sharp teeth.

_Law?.. _

Her ruses didn’t go unnoticed: Doflamingo grabbed one of the offered papers but his thoughts rushed back to Flevance – his mind immediately wandered towards the town leveled to the ground in mere hours, to the tragedy that stupefied the rest of the world, to the grave that released only one prisoner – that boy with hollow eyes. Trafalgar, who was taken in with open arms, taught multiple trades to… betrayed the Family. That would’ve been the first time Doflamingo heard of Law’s current location. He was smart to keep away, but an appearance at Clown's Laboratory? It could only spell trouble. Trouble he decided to keep from his immediate expression, rather sulking in the thought of Law's insubordination. 

Lanky digits gripping the opposite ends of the paper, withholding it before him, inspecting thoroughly. Along with that simper of hers. 

“Hm.” Granted he, dismissing the sheet of paper at his side, where the bulk of the pile lay. Had the Surgeon plagued his mind _that_ easily? Well, possibly. Although, if one were privy to the psyche of Doflamingo, they could expect it not being readily shown on his persona. His plight to stay imposing, an-ever winding road indeed. “What sort of man do you take me for?”

Monet was surprised by the question but didn’t reveal it: when Doflamingo asked, one was expected to answer – this unwritten rule of the Family she had learnt better than others. Sadistic to an extent, she felt no fear at the tortures she was exposed to, but she barely wanted to become the object of those. 

“Intelligent and insidious, Young Master.” Her voice didn’t jump up a notch: collected as usual, the woman was standing in front of him, taking in the sight of his tall, muscular figure. Swarthy, derisive, sarcastic complexion; that constant smirk upon his lips. Thin aristocratic fingers always pulling the imaginary strings. 

Relaxed manners. 

Quick. 

“Highly attractive. Powerful. Strong.” Adjectives escaped her lips without a hindrance: she spoke her mind honestly, aware of his attitude to a lie. He could kill her right here, and if he wished so, he wouldn’t waste his precious time. He would shut her up by a single gesture – but nothing happened: she was still standing in front of him, glaring into the hidden eyes of her Master. 

Subtly, the middle digit twitched briefly, this in turn manipulating a thread between them; another lax move of the string connected at the evergreen-haired female’s chin – and she rose her head a little. Seeking to reel her in close, preferably on the knees, as comfort would persist. In joint, the Powerful, Strong, Highly Attractive Monarch rose from the seat’s back-support, meeting Monet's face with his. Despite the current turn of the situation, she was far from danger and to put it into perspective, in front of him was simultaneously the most secured and vulnerable one should ever feel. The Harpy did not utter a single sound: even knowing that may be her last evening at the palace, she evinced no fright, albeit any other one would have been shivering at the sight of Doflamingo Donquixote. Calm as ever, unmoving, she kept glaring at the tanned complexion slightly sneering with the corner of her lips. 

A heated breath, passing onto her snow-tinted ear. Then came the low crooning of his tone.

“Then why is it, that you only report to me with _bad_ news? Am I not deserving of anything good? Is that what you're trying to tell me?” 

Encroaching, his hand sought the throat, depending on how favorable her answer was. In truth, the nature of the news hadn’t been inherently "bad", but that one mentioning of Law took him onto a rollercoaster through the past. Unpleasant.  
“Young Master deserves nothing but the best.” 

She looked up at him: not even trying to resist, the woman submitted to his gestures drawing her closer and closer to him, looming over her frame. He wanted her on her knees – he wanted the whole world on its knees groveling, begging for mercy, weeping and choking with tears; Doflamingo wanted the world to know about him – his urge to be respected, feared and spoken of was so clearly seen that even his confidants quietly gossiped about that. Monet never took part in such confabulations: she had nothing to mention on the topic. 

“Vergo knows about Law.” Her avian, honeyed eyes slid across the tanned face of the Monarch: it was always hard to say whether he liked the information she provided him with or just coped with a lack of better news, but the woman would never cross the line between them trying to flatter him. Evidently, this was one of the qualities he found worthy in her: she managed to be honest with him even if it may threaten her life. Of which she most likely knew.

“Vergo is expected to start taking measures against him. Caesar has arranged everything to protect SAD, and Vergo is guarding it. Is the news good enough to please you, Young Master?” she hissed, the tip of her tongue licked the bottom lip. He was too close to her – she practically sensed his deceiving warmth... and menace he was exuding.

Comparable to a sponge, soaking up everything he had to provide and accepting his every action. Doflamingo would be lying to say he hadn’t pondered the distance of her loyalty and how could one not? Cold, Contemplative orbs… dipped in the color of deceit, examined by the King’s unseen eyes. Passively mulling over the information she drafted. Completely inessential in terms of what he truly spoke about. 

“Hardly.” The King retorted with a tinge of sass. “Though, it will have to do. I've trust in Vergo, my Impenetrable Wall. But as for you, Monet…” Trailing on, with the utmost warmth to his breath, neck-seeking palm moving onto the Snow Woman's shoulder, seizing it gently. The proverbial ‘Hot Seat’, she was kneeled in, easing the tug of an invisible thread and fully allowing her the comfort of retreat. That was, if she so dared. “How will you please me?”

“Any way my Master wishes.” Still cold and collected; not a muscle twitched on her face – only a hot touch of his swarthy hand made her give a start, not because of nervousness she felt, but mostly at the sudden contact. Normally, she could be found at his feet, sitting silently and examining rare visitors or scrutinizing his unchangeable leaders, but he never condescended to that. “You are to order, Young Master. Your devoted servant is at your disposal.” 

Submissive, compliant – and still not a puppet. He could use his strings all along, but Monet always had something on her mind, the ideas he couldn’t finagle by hurting or teasing her: it was in her nature to talk less, to express her emotions by gestures and smirks she had so many in store. The most cunning ones prepared for him – just like that one now, stretching her pale lips and revealing the sharp teeth. 

“Power asserts rules. Who am I to bend them?” she whispered, straightening and shifting an inch closer to him pretending to be dragged by his strings. They both were going farther than expected – but neither of them seemed to mind.

Audaciousness. Riveting, ensnaring him subconsciously, placing his walk further along within this tricky game they played. King and Follower. Dominant and Submissive. Man and Woman. 

His role was driven almost by instinct, his calculating mind taking a backseat. Serving his needs more so than anything else at the moment. And her role, flexing the female’s intelligence and nudging him further. The Harpy's willingness to embark, without the hindrance of string told him all too well of what she wanted.

Leaving the luxury of her soft, silken form, diving once more within the relief of his chair's back support. Doflamingo's pair of elongated limbs, vacant, awaiting her positioning. An immense upgrade from being situated upon both knees. Gesturing with the slightest twitch of his hand. Such indulgence was a mere reward of his position and rightfully deserved.

“What is your command, Young Master?..” Brazen, Monet was staring directly at his face expecting a mere emotion flying across his tanned complexion. She had learnt to read him by the face, his mood swings were never a conundrum for her to unravel, but right now she wanted to make him talk — to admit that he, in fact, had his needs and desires; that he was a man; that he also needed a relief and a rest from all the business he possessed. “Do not hurry with your decision, Young Master. Speculate on the options...” she licked her lips again and closed her eyes for a moment – to pretend she didn’t spot his gaze perusing her intently as if apprehending a trick. “Think it all over, Young Master.” 

The woman's fingers hovered over his hand but didn’t touch his skin: the only thing he could feel was the cold gust of wind her digits left. Did he want to know how loyal she was? Did he see her as a devoted companion who had been pretending to work for Caesar for so long? 

“What sort of woman do you take me for, Young Master?” she paraphrased his question – bold enough, she could get her punishment for that... and she wouldn’t mind it either.

Given the opposing nature of the two, the moment couldn’t help _but_ fall into slight oddity with the cherry-pinkish glow of shades, dimmed by the lack of light. Obvious bait set by the kneeling woman, whom for some reason, just couldn’t have taken the easy road. He chalked it up as the usual woman's difficulty, reminiscent of a few lovers he had in the past, though none the similar. She was her own person, that much went without saying. 

Slightly, only slightly did his forehead tense with veins displaying his most prominent trait; anger, when thrown even the smallest obstacle. Seconded with the another trait, a profound ability that reared itself throughout the many twists and turns of his spiraling life: tranquility. Lips of a sun-kissed complexion, breaking for speech. Oh how easily he could’ve made a retort about Monet owing her very life to him, or all that he did to ensure the entire Family stayed above water, but he’d refrain. That was not the type of person Joker was, he held more power and impact than cheap tricks. What sort of woman did he take her for? 

“Mine.” The most ‘need and desire’ he’d reveal as far as their little mini-game of wits went. Such was his contribution. Brims taking the form of a pre-scowl, obviously playing the woman's snap on repeat upon his cerebral. Restraint for now, there will soon come a time for her punishment in their very near future.

“I like that.” 

She did not look away: although Doflamingo was visibly vexed by the question, she didn’t move away from him – quite on the contrary, his dry and short reply somewhat pushed her forward. No touching: she still managed to suppress the urge to brush her cold hand against his skin, and she had to confess, it was the hardest of all – he wielded power over her; over the whole damn country he had claimed as his, and it, in a way, turned her on. He was fate incarnate; he could crush her down right here; he could smash her head in a couple of seconds, slash her veins and let her bleed to death, but instead he was simply watching her taking in every single gesture of her narrow hands or sylphlike figure. What was he thinking about, she wondered. What was he depicting in his head, full of nasty schemes and dirty campaigns? Did he stray away from business and money? Was it the past that reverberated in his head? She couldn’t answer the questions, and she doubted she would ever try: he was a riddle not to be solved; full of surprises, he could reveal his most abhorrent sides – or his mercy she was barely acquainted with. Spending her life at his feet, Monet knew well: you had to do the impossible to prove your right to beg for mercy. Doflamingo would not spare a second in vain. 

Her gentle, alabaster hand moved to the green locks and pulled a strand behind the ear exposing thin pale neck with hardly visible blueish veins. 

“What do you expect from ‘your’ woman, Young Master?” not daring touch him, Monet shifted an inch more – he could sense her wintry breath. He could distinguish all the hues in her yellow eyes framed by long eyelashes. He could hear the beating of her heart – of the heart that belonged to him.

Monet entered a most favorable spot. The usual result for a person with such power and influence.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Keen ears prioritizing the melodic sound. Her beating organ, the core of her being. Almost synchronized to his own if one were focusing. Passage into the Lion’s Den awoken instinct, backing her up with an appendage from behind, situated at the small of her back. She was hesitant, but his needs were speaking. It was then, in that moment could he truly _feel_ the difference in strength between the two. If he decided to end her, there would be nothing left of her in mere seconds. If he decided to dismember her, the same result. Monet, his precious white lamb, offering herself to the harmonious slaughter that was Doflamingo Donquixote! 

Through beckoning her forth, eventuality would hopefully favor the King, granted with her wintry beauty face first. Golden-marked hues, transferring the concept of loyalty now, deceit no longer. Yet she would still seek to get a more clear confession out of him. Just what _was_ the Warlord planning and how exactly would he spin the words in his favor a second time. 

“I expect my woman, in my arms ... to let _go_.” 

His way of simultaneously putting an end to the interrogating, as if his intentions weren’t crystal clear enough along with the chance to begin their endeavor. Occupying the next limb with striding over her chin, a single thumb rested underneath those eternal-curving brims of hers. Open for his every nuance – even those that may take their relationship to an entirely new level.

The woman looked up into the orbs hidden by the cherry-pink glasses. He was staring back directly at her, she felt it with her skin, she sensed it with every single cell of her body – he was absorbed by the game. How often did he experience the boost of adrenaline in his blood? How often did he play by the rules? Did he exactly assert such rules – if so, she was boldly violating them putting her life at stake and giving him more than one reason to kill her right here, to end the teasing and enjoy the splash of her blood on his hands. 

When his fingers slid across her face, Monet froze: her breath staggered, eyelashes fluttered, but she didn’t let out a single sound. Compliant servant, she simply reacted to her Master’s caprices noticing every single detail. The contrast of their skin. The contrast of their positions. Their gestures. Their manners. Frivolous, brazen Doflamingo – obedient, meek maid ready to fulfill any wish of his, no matter how terrible it may be. His hot thumb pressed against her margins – the warmth of his skin nearly burnt her, but she didn’t say anything. Still glaring at his face distorted by a smirk she couldn’t quite comprehend, the Harpy opened her mouth, touched his digit with the tip of her tongue – and slowly sucked it in.

Hesitant, taciturn, gentle – devoted, quiet, sly. Was she following his rules?.. Probably not. Probably he should be a bit more eloquent – to win over her in this game.

She was… in the correct ballpark. Nearing favorable results of his _mysterious_ game and truth be told, this contact was enough to initiate the full brunt of his instinct. Like a leech of sorts, he pressed onward within the confines of her mouth, testing her faith in some manner. Hand seeking attachment with the rest of her face, Doflamingo then became a makeshift pacifier, entangling with the contrasting heat that was the inside of her mouth. Soft, sleek, inviting. So much so, that another digit followed the original and then would another. So on and so forth, ‘til the point all digits threatened the small space. Quite the primal response she gave him, so thus he’d respond in the same manner.

Fingers coated in saliva, returning to their sender, trails of drool extending from his mitt much like the Ruler’s strings. Leaving the presumably yearning mouth of Monet, free for the taking. The lunge forward wouldn’t be one out of desperation, at least not to sully his image. But the eagerness to act had to be noticed. Crashing fresh lips, that have spat untruths, that have manipulated, that have the orchestrated heaps of tragedies upon the soaked, light pleasantry of the Snow Woman. 

Cool to the touch, dominance prevailed. 

Albeit briefly. He reduced the pressure of the kiss in order to give off imposing words. 

“Defilement.”

Strictly in the Monarch's sense. She was, after all, his woman. 

With that, came a certain degree of exposure granted solely to him. The rights to her body, life, and soul. Here this would be tested, boundaries pushing by the second. The supporting hand greeting the small of her back, snaked itself underneath the female's shirt, applying his tactile sense more intensely.  
“Defilement I accept.”

Breathing heavier, Monet shivered at the touch of his fingers crawling underneath her shirt. She never imagined him to be so torrid: in fact, she expected his skin to be marble and frigid, but his digits turned out to be callous – they seemed to leave burning marks upon that snowy white canvas of her body she was willingly giving to him. He could do whatever he wanted, she wouldn’t complain; she wouldn’t grant him with a moan of pain unless he wanted to hear it; she came to be his devoted dog, and the devoted dog she will remain. 

“Defilement I accept.”

His lips touched hers – and dried the wet margins of the woman eager to pleasure him in any way he could ever imagine. She would have prolonged that; she somewhat felt the urge to taste him further, to relish and to taste the flavor of dominance and infinite power that could obliterate her in mere seconds, but he didn’t let her – he was the one to put her in her place. 

“Defilement I accept.”

A little bit louder. Her cool marble hand lying on his thin wrist with a visible round bone on the side – a sign of aristocracy, a sign of upper crust, a sign of the Heavens he was denied. A sign of someone imperious and potent, of someone whose hands were washed by rivers of blood. What did it feel like, to be exclusive?.. What did it feel like, to have one’s fate in the hands? What did it feel like, to stare at the blood stains upon this swarthy skin kissed by the thousands of suns she never saw? What did it feel like, to... hold her in the arms knowing she would do anything he ordered?..

Monet’s fingertips ran up to his forearm, stumbled and stopped completely. How bold was it on her part? Was she to be punished? How? Was he going to give her a hint?  
“Defilement I choose.” 

Everything Monet’s body offered, in totality, it would be tested. Each and every small signal it gave, telling of her submission, relinquishment, and frailty underneath him, Doflamingo would go the extra mile to ensure her lithe, pale figure was certified for pleasing him. It was almost demonic, the style in which his lips ravished hers and rightfully so. Her repetitive words became music more enamoring than the sultry tunes playing from the record-player. 

Getting his fill, ridding all the barriers on his end, with a prodding, lengthy strip of velvet, caressing and wetting ivory folds. Fearless progression, leaving the other stiff as a board and he would find little wrong with that stipulation for the moment. Scooping underneath the woman’s tongue with his own, mimicking their situation with entrapment. Curling and much like a netted animal in this regard, reeling it in for good. Furthermore, he’d go about implementing his saliva-drenched hold and clamping her cheeks, continuing to claim rule to her mouth. Heaven's grasp, staying away from smiting the eager partner. _For now._ It was a pleasure to watch her venture on the fence between comfort and uncertainty. Symbolizing once more, the weak prey in sight of its predator. Stinging heat, leaving the body and seeking the arm rest. Fiddling with her mouth for a few more moments, before restraining himself then too. 

“Undress both of us. Don’t make me wait any longer.” Doflamingo commanded. 

Another fierce kiss – passionate, without any note of care or love, filled with lust and puissance that would scare any other woman away. 

“Why not wait a bit more, Young Master?”

Teasing him was dangerous: he didn’t need an opportunity to choose a better option to reveal his anger. He would leave long bleeding gashes upon her alabaster body enjoying the sight of crimson rivulets running across that pale skin. He could whip her – out of sheer curiosity, sadistic desire to humiliate a weaker one. He could take her here and now, not savoring the moment – but, as a noble man, as an aristocrat, he cherished the moment as if Monet became a sip of good wine he always had in his mini-bar. 

White hands ran across the body – slowly, bit by bit, she was revealing herself to her Master, shamelessly and meekly at the same time. Her nimble fingers teasingly removed the black lacy bra contrasting with her skin.

“Do you like the sight?..”

Obedient, the woman moved another inch closer; audacious, Monet pressed her cool lips to his collar bone while her hands were tenderly pulling down his shirt. Enthralled by the heat his body exuded, the Harpy kept sliding down across his muscular frame, crawling closer and closer to the belt of his pants. Looking back up at the man looming over her, she grinned, tilted her head to the side, straightened up for a moment – and her soft hands smelling lemon and mint, hovered to his glasses carefully taking them off. 

“I do not want to break them.”

Putting the accessory aside, the woman took him by the hand again, her tongue grazing between his index and third finger, her crotch, soaking wet, rubbing against his erection. 

Choppy saxophones, breaking the monotone pace of a piano’s chime, stealing the rhythm from within. Idly counting the beats, it was infectious. Complementing the enchantress’ naked sway, heightening the moment to nigh-perfection. Never audibly commenting the other, much would disrupt his image. 

The redolence of her skin, lemon and mint amalgamated, somewhat seemed bitter on the tongue. Stripped of expensive clothes and an accessory some would believe to be permanent, Doflamingo stayed collected. Had it been normal circumstances, he would react abrasively, tossing the woman aside and punishing her extremely – anyone would spot ugly blemishes his ruthless ire bestowed on her. Instead, he resorted to deep pondering. Wondering, as she stripped and bore her astounding, nimble form to him, just what thoughts came to the woman’s mind. Was she satisfied with the current track of events? Was she thinking nothing but servitude? Did she have a myriad of things that she yearned to be done to her? It would take only a moment for her to complete the stripping of herself – back into the den.

The King's lamb began to suckle, feverishly, at the hand that fed her, quite literally. Reinstalling her other juices to coat the underside of his length. Center-most, emitting the same heat she felt from him all this time mingling with a pulsating throb.

“Fearless.”

At long last, he had broken the spell of silence before unexpectedly, restricting her wrists and hoisting his woman in the air by these articles. Second, he seized the legs; much like a hog-tie, folding each leg in half before binding them fully. It was so unwise of her to think that those silly endeavors to confound him went unnoticed. 

Slits ran red. The abrupt placement of countless strings, slowly lacerating her tender thighs drove him feral with its contrast. Power. Control. Dominance. He radiated these with perfect ease. 

“What are you? My object. By my name and word only, will you live and die.”

Softly spoken, minding not if Monet’s blood dripped towards his muscular magnificence. Erection further stimulated by the pain he induced. “What do you think these marks upon your body symbolize?”

He must be enjoying every single moment of her tranquil obedience: staring directly into his eyes, Monet kept sucking on his fingers sticking with the unwritten laws of the Family. She had to comply with every single word he said; she had no right to violate any of the rules; she was a living being – and his devoted puppet that should be ready to fulfill any wish of the Master whose devious mind contrived perfect, complicated schemes. Her sucking on his fingers were another display of her position – she was not allowed to do anything else unless he mentioned it or gave her a tiny innuendo which she would catch immediately, which she would read by the muscles of his tanned complexion of the gestures of his fingers. 

“Your power over me.”

Breathing a tad faster, with her chest heaving up and down, Monet followed the strings with her eyes. The pain was unbearable, but for some reason she didn’t mind: it was another epitome of his control; it demonstrated his rank of the King; it made him her superior, her personal God who was responsible for every single decision ever made. She no longer belonged to herself – Doflamingo Donquixote claimed as his object, his puppet, and she did not resist.  
“They symbolize control you have over me.”

Maroon rivulets painted her skin crimson, but she didn’t say a word. Instead, Monet kept watching at the scarlet drops falling upon him, adding new colors and hues. 

“They symbolize you.”

Monet’s wrists started bleeding – not a squeak cursed the calm of the room he was occupying. Not a breath of pain or discomfort – he could feel the sultriness, growing desire, her compliance and total devotion. What turned him on more? Her quiet agreement? Her passive reaction? Her own arousal? Her skin covered in slits? Her violations of his rules? Her brazen attitude when she dared remove his glasses to see his tanned face with refined features?.. 

“By your name and word only, will I live and die, Young Master.”

Another thread, maybe occasionally, cut her pale lip – Monet, all to his disposal, vulnerable and crucified to his caprices, grinned... and licked the blood off with the tip of the tongue that had just demonstrated how perverse her mind could be. Oh, that woman turned out to be so much more than just a doll – a puppet – for the night.

Chin resting against a knuckled-fist, the convulsions her chest took, entranced the naked set of eyes. Like cattle, he hoisted his proclaimed woman and again, like his captured prey, the tension caused by each abrupt laceration was all but hidden among her features. Whereas the basic lustful mind of the average male would fantasize over immediate connection with the entangled woman, Doflamingo found solace in simply toying with her. 

Unabashed by the trickling sweat, sliding past porcelain hips, dripping the Harpy's milky canvas of white in colorful liquids, sharing them with the male seated below her. Her boldness? The countless infractions? Barely. Such was only an addition to his sultry allure, begetting these very actions in the first place. 

“What will the public think of these markings? Are you still beautiful with them? What if I were to take an eye? An ear? Sew your lips shut? Or..?” 

Dangerously, bending that lengthy middle digit of his and in response, etching a _mild_ horizontal nick in the side of her neck. Nothing too major and precise skill would keep it from slicing an artery. In the instance Monet's reactions were less than satisfactory, he would continue the beheading, but he held faith. Why else would she be annexed into the Family? For what reason would he claim her as his, without faith? Undergoing his series of mental examinations, was no run-of-the-mill woman and he knew that all too well. She would expectantly take his every action, awaiting the next set of orders directly after. This level of submission brought her leagues above the title of “Mere Puppet.”

No, Monet held a title all on her own, clearly bearing some sort of pride in her servitude towards Donquixote. 

“Does your worth as a woman dwindle?” Cuts, migrating inward. Amidst the valley of those stout thighs. Leaving stripes, tally marks, one after the other. “What achievement in your life surpasses this?”

Playing himself up with the last inquiry, reasonably grinning. Little by little allowing the woman’s figure to lower. Until the nigh-frozen, bleached tone folds of her entrance, met the grand presence of his member, Monet’s crimson essence, another differentiation between her and a lifeless item, previously lubricating the Young Master's shaft. Throbbing at the intense sight of pain and pleasure. Slowly but surely, throughout the questioning he would trespass into her womanly territory, currently allowing his tip to take the first dive.

As usual, he wanted to play with her: sadistic, atrocious, he wouldn’t stop after one gash – quite on the contrary, the sight of blood on her porcelain skin drove him excited. As an aristocrat, Doflamingo cherished beauty, art and luxury, but his understanding of beauty, art and luxury differentiated from that of ordinary hoi polloi. Body was a canvas, blood was a paint – only two constituents could create a masterpiece deserving his unshared attention, and Monet was to become one. Unlike others, she was allowed to take a step forward, to be a stage higher than everyone, to turn into a piece of art — by his hand and imagination. She may be unique in this case: she doubted there would be any other member of the Family granted with such an opportunity. 

“It does not matter what they think. I belong to you, Young Master.” 

Her voice, hollow, pierced the sultry tension of the room. Cleary in pain, painted by rivulets of blood streaking down her pale body, Monet didn't whimper – still audacious, she kept staring at him, she accepted every action of his, every new cut and every new string lacerating her skin. She was his object; not a toy to play with, but an object for him be proud of – if she was less than that, she would have been decimated. 

“I belong to you, Young Master,” she repeated, her lips curling into a sly smirk – a small blood spot upon her bottom margin blessed with his fierce, cruel kiss. “Your decision makes my worth. Your decision identifies my achievements.”

Monet bit her lip at the feeling of his shaft slowly penetrating her: she threw her head slightly back and clenched her fists enjoying every single moment. Come to think of it, he considered her worthy – he didn’t verbalize it, but she _deserved_ to change the character of their relationship for this night, even it would bring no alterations in the future. Maybe the list of her responsibilities may include a couple of new things – but apart from this... __

_ _“I want to be yours, Young Master,” she hushed and shivered at the spectrum of new sensations their contrast supplied her with. “Let me be your woman...”_ _

_ _A thin scarlet thread of blood ran to her collar bones and streaked down to her chest making its way between her breasts. Probably it fascinated him more than the sight of the obedient woman – but it certainly gave him the pleasure he hoped to get._ _

_ _“Then leave the formalities behind.”_ _

_ _In the midst of speech, their below-the-belt undertaking would come to a minor pause. Threads manipulated to keep the woman steady, barely inside of her opening slit. Doflamingo wanted her trained properly, in lack of a better term, or even possibly the correct term to fit. His Deviance would love to hear the woman carry on about what twisted things she wished for and secondly, would love to be the only man to dare intrude on her matchless form. Hands never once trailing out to fondle her body as much as he could. Art was much more tasteful than that. _ _

_ _“Spare no detail.” Assuming she’d be keen enough to know what such meant, along with the threat attached to it, Monet finally rekindled her journey. Rosy-pink flesh, splitting in the wake of the King’s stiff, pulsating rod. Swallowed by the leaking Harpy’s insides, in increments. The sweltering pull of her flesh fighting a winning battle in keeping his manhood lodged in. _ _

_ _In fact, Monet thought him to be indifferent and aloof: Doflamingo never revealed any interest in women, nor did she ever try to pique his curiosity: a ruthless murderer, a businessman, a broker of the underworld, he used to be busy with the affairs she was not allowed to. But for the first time in her life she wondered whether it turned out to be just an image he wanted to create. _ _

_ _“I want to feel your hands, Young Master.”_ _

_ _It was a step to start with: Monet cherished art as much as he did, and ruining the masterpiece upon the canvas of her skin would be a blasphemy beyond any normal mind. She wanted to spot those crimson splashes upon his fingers; she wanted his calloused digits brush the colors across her form; she wanted his breath upon her neck – upon the gash he had left with his strings. Never touching, he managed to make her burn with desire and anticipation, and probably her own behavior gave him such a hint. The difference was that she didn't dare cross the line – and he was inquisitive to see what may come next. _ _

_ _“I want that blood on your fingers, Young Master. Would be such a shame if you didn’t touch the art.”_ _

_ _Another smirk contorted her features, and the woman gasped for air at a slow movement of his – he waited patiently, but his patience was running low, although Monet couldn't quite comprehend which option turned him on the most and what made him so hungry for her. _ _

_ _“Art always wants to meet its Creator. That is a godly act.” The Harpy whispered into his ear: he let her move closer, but she still had some distance between them not to seem a recalcitrant violating the boundaries. Quite on the contrary: meek all the way, she managed to show her desire and longing for him – only a thin strand of her green hair tickled his skin. Only her breath grazed upon him. _ _

_ _“Everybody wants to see the God. And I am granted with the opportunity to touch Him... to hold Him in my arms. To serve Him and to please Him.”  
The tip of her tongue grazed across his ear lobe and in a moment her wet, cool lips pressed to the pulsating vein on the neck. What audacity. Unmitigated gall – but they will talk about it later on. _ _

_ _Monet realized his hands grabbed her by the hips and forced her down on his shaft. The woman emitted a low moan resembling a roar, and heard a reply – his own animalistic growl. Doflamingo’s long fingers stuck into her pallid skin leaving marks and mauve, violet bruises. He pressed her to his larger frame, kissed her brusquely and passionately, and the woman, normally cold as ice, became inflame. To take control over this unbridled concupiscence, the Harpy covered him with her soft wings as if to add a gentler hue to the masterpiece of total fervor. A couple of times she attempted to utter that they could be heard; that the noise may put other inhabitants of the palace on guard, but in response he covered her mouth with a tanned hand, scratched her back with the short nails and gnarled that he didn’t care at all. _ _

_ _And right now, spread-eagled across the floor of the destroyed Laboratory at Punk Hazard where she returned the next morning to resume her responsibilities, Monet was dwelling on one and the same thing: he would be proud of her. That night became a pivot point for them both: he finally concluded he could trust her all the way, and she would sacrifice herself without thinking in the name of his ambitions, and Monet made sure that Doflamingo deserved her unshared allegiance – her last decision would determine her real place in that Family._ _


End file.
